


hasten to the heights that i have longed for

by teamfreewolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Other, castiel is actually firestiel, dean is a pyro, thingstiel fandom is the best fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreewolf/pseuds/teamfreewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching the scene, clutched against his family, something inside him wakes. It lifts its head and scents the air. It lights up with joy at the sight of the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hasten to the heights that i have longed for

**Author's Note:**

> "The rim  
> Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,  
> And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire."  
> \- Anna Akhmatova
> 
> Unbeta'd.

His father is screaming at him. A small, warm bundle is pushed into his hands.

_“Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don’t look back! Now Dean, go!”_

He can barely hear his father’s voice over the roaring around him, heat and light beating at every sense, but fear solidifies in his stomach as short legs carry him quickly towards what is visible of the front door. He stumbles a bit just before he reaches it, and catches a cloud of smoke in his mouth. He’s still coughing, tears stinging in his eyes, as he emerges, streaking across the front lawn towards the sound of approaching sirens.

 

Cradling Sam tightly against his body the way Mom taught him, Dean tries to expel the smoke from his lungs, hacking and spitting into the night. But the taste of it has settled on his tongue. Thick, congealed, blackness. Like the time Dad walked away from the grill for too long but Dean was too hungry to wait for another burger and greedily ate the charred remains, face screwed up in disgust, too stubborn to stop in the face of his parents’ amused expressions. He’d been spitting out black flecks the rest of the night.

This is different though, heavier. He can’t force it out. It’s swirling around in his lungs, and he imagines them darkening with the exposure. It’s still there when the firefighters come, there when they pull Dad from the house, face streaked and broken. His father comes over to kneel before them and gathers up Sam before pulling Dean into an embrace.

Pressed against his father and brother, knowing now that something is terribly wrong, Mom hasn’t come out yet, he stops trying to get rid of the taste. He looks over his father’s shaking shoulder and into the violence of the flames. His mother is in there. His life is in there. His possessions. The wall of hot, flashing, violent colors are consuming it all.

He’s ruminated on the moment many times over the years. He wonders now what exactly what was in the wind that night, what it was that settled itself so deeply in his body. Did that ash on his tongue contain his favorite toy? Sam’s blanket? John’s baseball card collection? Mary’s books? Mary?

How much of his life did he inhale, only after it was burned beyond recognition?

Watching the scene, clutched against his family, something inside him wakes. It lifts its head and scents the air. It lights up with joy at the sight of the fire. It soothes Dean. It whispers,  _look, how beautiful_. Dean can’t break his gaze away. The firefighters and spectators are too distracted to notice the rapt expression on the young boy’s face as he watches the flames resist the firefighters’ efforts. The fire is stubborn. It kind of reminds Dean of himself.

The Thing inside him quiets when the flames are finally extinguished, slithering back into the depths, radiating satisfaction. Dean’s limbs are relaxed, from exhaustion, but also relief. He doesn’t understand it then. All he knows then is the fire is terrible but wonderful, powerful and frightening. 

It steadies him in the face of the grief threatening to overwhelm him.

—-

At the next year’s neighborhood 4th of July celebration, John is laughing (hollowly) with his friends from the mechanic shop, and not watching Dean closely enough to see him inching closer and closer to the bonfire. The fire is growing steadily as the night progresses, a red column jutting into the dusky horizon.

Dean watches it crackle and his mouth goes dry. Small dirty fingers twitch, and soon it becomes too much. He leans forward from his seat on the plastic white lawn chair, reaching –

His father’s shout jerks him back. John’s hands grasp him roughly beneath his armpits and haul him up and away from the fire. Dean’s cry of protest is cut off. His father sets him down back by the buffet table, crouching as he turns his son to face him. 

“Dean, you can’t do that. You – you can’t. You’re gonna give your old man a heart attack.” He’s bringing Dean’s hands up, running his own along the palms and between fingers, checking for any damage. “Why don’t you go sit with Missouri and your brother for a while? 

Normally, Dean would protest. But his Dad’s eyes are strangely wide and bright. Dad is afraid. He knows now that Dad doesn’t understand, he never will. The Thing in his belly uncoils.

_‘So we can’t let him know.’_

The secret begins.

 —-

Dean sets his first real fire at 13. The fire department gets called, and they put out the relatively tiny blaze in a matter of minutes. They blame it on the drought, and the dry wood and dangerous wiring of the condemned house. It’s easily dismissed. The Thing inside Dean laughs and it is full of pure joy. Dean watches from behind the safety perimeter. 

Those furious flames are his. They sprang from his fingers, from his flesh, they were beautiful extensions of him, and they were so powerful. Ripping and destroying, bowing only beneath the firefighters’ hoses. The light of them seeps back into his skin as they are extinguished – he has goose bumps, even in the summer’s sweltering heat.

 —-

Three years later, Sam discovers him.

Lounging on his bed, he’s running his fingertips tenderly along the tip of the lit match. There are blisters there now from all the times he’s done this, but nobody notices. He works hard enough with his father on weekends in the shop now that blisters and callouses are easily explained away on rough edges and hot metal. 

Sam bursts through the doorway, and his eyes widen, a doe in headlights, at the sight. Dean has the match extinguished between his fingers in a heartbeat. The Thing hisses in dissatisfaction. 

“Dean?” His baby brother’s voice is thin. “What are you doing?” 

“Sam, I –“ He could brush this off. He could easily make this a soon forgotten moment. He’s fooled the adults in his life for years. But he can’t lie to his brother. 

The truth comes tumbling out, and with every word the tension in his spine ratchets up another notch. 

“Please, you can’t tell Dad, okay? He can’t know, he won’t understand but… I need this, Sammy.” 

Sam’s eyes are too sharp and weary for his age. They rake over Dean’s face, and Dean feels the Thing writhing in sorrow in his stomach.  _It’s over, they don’t understand, they will take it away from you…_

Sam nods. “Okay, Dean. I promise.”

Dean’s shoulders sag with relief. 

The secret becomes theirs.

—-

Having a lookout makes things infinitely easier.

The daily need is easy to assuage. Dean plays with matches and disposable lighters, tickling the little flames and it satisfies him. Mostly.

Every few months or so, however, the Thing begins to scratch at his skin. It wants  _out_. He gets the sweats in his sleep. He can’t concentrate in school, picturing the desks burning and his teachers burning and his classmates standing in horror with the light of it piercing their eyes.

It wants to break through him, suck up the oxygen, ignite and consume.

These times require bigger fires. Dean needs small brush fires, needs thick black smoke, needs to smell something burning besides the matchstick or his own flesh.

Sam finds the perfect place, a few blocks from home: a patch of dry, malnourished field hidden from the neighbors’ house by their barn. A group of stray cats had taken over the area, and they hiss and hide when the boys approach.

The makeshift pit soon scares the cats away into the distant cornfield. They do not come back.

Sam leans against the barn and reads while Dean manipulates the fire. He throws in whatever kindling he can find, and breathes the smoke deep into his lungs. Passes tips of fingers through the flames.

He thinks of his mom. He imagines her face, smiling and sunshine bright, in the wall of riotous color. The fire burns away all the grief, leaving Dean with only the most pure, most joyful memories he can summon. He lies down along the ground and basks. The Thing moves leisurely through his body; he relaxes as he feels it touching every bone and organ as it tries to emulate the dance of the flames. He stares, unmoving, for hours, until the blaze finally sputters and becomes only embers.

He wakes a lightly snoring Sam and they walk home. Dean’s hand gets ash on Sam’s shirt where his arm is flung around his shoulder.

—-

The summer before Sam hits high school he throws himself even further into his books and studies. He tries to classify Dean. He’s clutching a review book for the AP Psychology Exam in his hands when he spouts words like “pyromania” and “fire-starter”.

Dean and the Thing are terrified.

“Jeez, Sammy, slow down there. Keep piling those ideas in your brain and pretty soon you’re gonna start thinking I’m crazy… you’ll have them put me away.” The Thing shrieks inside him; Dean feels bile rise in his throat.

Sam’s eyes snap to his, features contorting into what Dean realizes will eventually grow into an absolutely magnificent bitchface.

“Don’t be stupid Dean.”

Dean swallows harshly. He grabs his little brother by the scruff of his neck and pulls him into a tight, brief embrace.

—-

On the morning of Dean’s high school graduation he finds a small box on his dresser. He lifts the white cardboard lid warily. Sitting on a little patch of gauze is a silver lighter. It’s gleaming and smooth except for the ornamental ‘ _W_ ’ engraved on the side.

Dean picks it up and slides his fingertips along the sides and edges – the cool metal is soothing against his newest blisters. (He’s been so nervous for today; he thought it would never actually come, but Dad and Sam were  _so proud_  of him for making it…) He thumbs it open and flicks the wheel. The happily dancing little flame splits his face into a grin.

_Sam._  

The runt had been hanging around the garage for the past few weeks, doing odd jobs for John and his coworkers. Dean wondered why his little brother was suddenly so interested in cars, but now he realizes that it wasn’t the work, it was the pay that drew him. 

Dean huffs out a laugh and tenderly closes the lighter. He tucks it into the pocket of his jeans and dons his gown. 

When they call his name and he starts up the aisle towards the podium, he discretely palms his leg to feel the outline of it there, the weight against his thigh a solid comfort. 

He hugs his family and reddens under his father’s teary grin. He tightens his arm in a bear grip around Sam and whispers “Thank you,” in his ear. Sam’s smile lights up and even the Thing is impressed at the sight. 

From that day forward the lighter never leaves his pocket.

—- 

Sam goes to Stanford. In a move that surprises absolutely nobody, Dean follows. 

They find an apartment together; close enough to campus for Sam to walk to classes. John makes a few phone calls to his vet buddies and wrangles a place for Dean at a mechanic shop in Palo Alto. He starts out just doing odd jobs, nothing major until the owner, a Mr. Singer, decides he’s “worth the trouble”, and so in order to rack up a few extra dollars he works as a busboy a few nights a week in the restaurant across the street from their place. 

The sweltering heat of the kitchen when he goes into the back makes him swallow thickly. 

He’ll have to find a new place for his hobby here. They aren’t in Kansas anymore. 

But there’s no open fields, no empty dirt roads, everything is green and polished and residential. He chokes it down; he can’t let anything get in the way of their place here, Sam’s place. His baby brother isn’t such a baby anymore, he’s worked so hard for this, and Dean won’t risk it, even if the Thing is more growing more violent than ever.

The sweats still happen, but now when Dean comes to sudden, gasping consciousness, he thinks he can smell burning flesh in his nose. 

Other people would call them nightmares, he supposes. Dean just palms down the evidence of them until he pads into the shower; he imagines the water sluicing ash from his veins as he comes.

—-

He wonders if this is what a volcano feels like. 

Primal unimaginable heat and fury always moving thick and slow beneath the surface. 

Dormant until it’s time to demolish entire civilizations.

—- 

Sam gets a job at the university library, because  _of course_  he does. 

One day he bursts through their apartment door, a stack of books clutched in his gangling long arms. He’s waving one in Dean’s face, voice cracking as he talks too fast for Dean to understand. 

“Woah there, tiger. Slow your roll. I can’t make out a word you just said.” 

“Dean!” It’s exasperated, but Sam’s eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed. He’s excited. “I’ve been researching something for ages, and I think I found –“ He cuts himself off. “I guess I should, uh, start before this actually.” He thumps down next to Dean onto their creaky couch, books still pressed like a lover to his chest.  “It’s about your…” 

Dean tenses. “What about it.” He’s been good, so good, so careful it hurts. 

“You know, pyrolatry has been practiced for ages –“ 

“Pyrawhat now?” 

“Pyrolatry, the worship of fire. It’s been a part of pretty much every major religion, and a lot of the minor ones too, since the freaking Stone Age. Rituals, gods, entire belief systems based on it.” 

“Thanks Father Samuel, for the lesson, but what are you getting at here? What does this have to do with my – ?” Dean still just knows it as the Thing, but they haven’t ever actually put a name to it. Nothing ever felt right. Putting a name or a label on it just made it angry, gave him headaches, so he and Sam have learned the art of maneuvering around the words. 

Sam runs a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut. 

“I know that you feel… lonely, Dean. Stop, don’t -!” he exclaims as Dean tenses beside him. “I mean, of course you have me, you always have me, but even so… I can see it. I see a lot of things you don’t want me to, I think. It’s hard for you here. You don’t have anywhere to… to go and… ? There’s nobody but me to talk to –“

“I talk to lots of people, Sam!” 

“I don’t mean at work, Dean,  _you know_  what I mean. About  _you._  This need. You can’t tell anybody, and now that I’ve got school and work and –“ he stumbles, but Dean can see the pretty blonde (Jess, if he remembers correctly) Sam’s been talking about recently flash in his brother’s eyes. He stamps down the rush of jealousy and the Thing laughs maliciously at him.

“You’re right, I can’t tell anybody. I won’t risk your shit here, Sam. It’s fine,  _I’m_ fine, I can deal.”

“You can’t tell any _body_ , but what about any _thing?_ ” Sam’s grin is all teeth and mischief.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The Thing is stirring, stretching out. Sam’s books are forgotten on his lap as he spreads his hands wide, gesturing to punctuate every thought.

“Remember the class I took last semester on Indo-European folktales and religions?” 

“Uh, sure.” 

“Well, we did a huge portion on kinds of fire worship and fire temples, and obviously it all kind of hit home, so I started digging into it on my own time. The stacks have some really obscure shit, you know that? And there’s this librarian, Mr. Turner, that knows everything someone could possibly know about the occult section.” 

“Sounds like weirdo.” 

“Shut up,” Sam spits, but it’s affectionate. “He’s been really helpful, actually, once I got past the vitriol. But last month, I found this book, and it’s taken me a while to translate some of it, but there’s a ritual in it. A ritual that is supposed to  _bring fire to life._ ”

The Thing is fully awake now, pressing viciously against Dean’s chest, trying to burst through his sternum to listen. It is  _definitely_  interested. Dean can’t believe his ears. 

“Don’t be stupid, Sam.” It comes out harsher than it needs to be. Dean can’t let such an idea take root, he won’t let it. “That’s just some witchy mumbo-jumbo bullshit, it won’t work.” But if it did, oh  _God_ , if it did… 

“I know you remember all the stories Dad told us, from the war? He said he’s seen some really weird shit, Dean. And you know he thought Mom was around for years after…” 

“I know, Sam, I know. I freaking remember. He was grieving, it’s understandable; don’t let Dad’s lapse of weirdness –“ 

“Just look at it.”

The book from before, a small leather bound thing, gets shoved in his face. Dean takes it; the cover is dark, dark brown, and there’s no title, just faded white symbols. He runs a finger along the equally blank spine. It’s old, very old, there’s no doubt about that.

“Sammy,” he breathes, “Mom… she used to read books with stuff like this on it.” His index finger has started to trace the smallest symbol on the cover, a circular shape located in lower left corner, over and over again, without any conscious thought. 

The Thing is trembling now, and Dean trembles with it. With every pass of skin along leather its cries amplify. It  _wants._  Dean wants too. A living fire. An animate being of purity and chaos. Destruction made sentient.

Tentatively, Sam leans over, and Dean makes the conscious effort not to snap the book back out of reach. Long fingers brush Dean’s out of the way and open the book, turning yellowed sheets of paper until finding the place they want. 

The smell that wafts up from the pages is all age and musk. Dean wonders what they would smell like burning.

The pages spread on his lap have the same circular symbol from the cover in their corners. Immediately Dean’s hands are tracing them again. He would be freaked out by how soothing it is, but the calm that washes over him at the touch won’t allow it. The words are not in modern English; Dean’s eyes cross as he tries to decipher it.

“You can read this?” 

“Uh, well enough, yeah. Like I said, it took me a while. With Mr. Turner’s help, of course.” 

“And this is… this will… bring it to life?” 

“If it’s not just some witchy mumbo-jumbo bullshit, then, yeah. It’s supposed to.” 

Words fail him for a while. He can’t think past the Thing’s incessant wriggling. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

His brother has been his constant, his rock. But even Sam can never truly understand Dean and his flames, no matter how hard he tries. Dean’s hand slips unthinkingly into his pocket, clutching his lighter. 

The fire has always been his true match. His companion. He loves it without question or expectation and he’s always  _imagined_  the feeling is returned, but to  _know_?

If they do this and it fails, Dean thinks he might die. The Thing will kill him, for sure, the way it’s screaming for satisfaction and completion now. It wants its partner.

“Okay.” It’s quiet.

Sam’s response is not. 

“Okay? Really?!” His grin is back, puppy-cute and gleaming. “Awesome! There’s a new moon in two weeks; we can do it then! I’ll pick up the ingredients… where are we gonna do it though?” 

“We can do it out by the shop. I saw on the schedule that Bobby is gone that week, visiting relatives I think, so nobody will be there late.” 

“Okay, how will we get in after hours then?”

“I’ll just steal a key.” 

His future lawyer brother should not look as happy to hear about Dean’s continuing criminal activities as he does.

—-  

The gate surrounding Singer Salvage is tall and covered with a tarp, making it an ideal place to perform a suspicious ancient summoning ritual. Their flashlights are the only illumination in the moonless night.

The key ring Dean pocketed at the end of his shift gets them through this gate, and also into the furthest garage structure from the road. There’s only one car in it currently, parked in the far corner with its hood up and its engine missing. Tools and chains cover the back wall. 

Sam shucks the duffle bag from his shoulder and immediately begins to unload. Dean watches in utter fascination as his brother lights thick white candles, placing them to make four corners of a square. Flipping open the book to the ritual page, Sam painstakingly draws the symbol from the corners in the middle of the candles. At the sight of the chalk on concrete, the symbol blossoming beneath his brother’s hands, the Thing wakes and squirms in anticipation. 

Next, Sam pulls out a glass mixing bowl from their kitchen.

“Dean, c’mere and grind this.” Dean forces his legs forward, taking the bowl and the tiny vials of dried leafy stuff inside it. He dumps the vials in, wrinkling his nose. 

“What the hell is this stuff?” 

“Uh, taraxacum and –“ 

“Dandelions?!” 

“Just the dandelion leaves, technically.” Sam shrugs. “They’re supposedly good for summoning spells. I don’t know, I’m just following the instructions Dean.” 

“Whatever. Got something for me to grind them with?” Sam hands him a large rock. “Really?”

“Again, just following instructions.” 

Dean grunts, but dutifully mushes the dried leaves and whatever other weird shit Sam somehow managed to locate into a fine dust. Once he’s finished, Sam takes the bowl and places it dead center in the symbol. 

“Okay, the spell can only performed with one person present, so I guess I’m going to have to teach you the incantation.” Sam stands, brushing chalky residue from his pants. Dean follows suits, and for half an hour they stand just outside the candles, Sam slowly reciting the archaic words and correcting Dean until he has it just right. 

“Alright. You need to recite it three times, and then toss the lit match, or in our case, lighter, into the powder so it ignites.”

“…And?” 

“And what?” 

“That’s it. Toss, ignite, and… wait I guess.” 

“You  _guess_?”

Sam has long since perfected his bitchface. 

“I’m not exactly a friggin’ wizard Dean, I don’t know what will happen, if  _anything_  will happen.”

Dean’s chest seizes in fear at the thought.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just…” 

The bitchface softens. 

“I know.” Sam checks his watch. “Uh, I guess there’s nothing else for me to do here. I’m gonna go keep watch outside.” He clears his throat. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe. “Good luck, Dean.” 

“Thanks Sammy.” 

His brother slips through the garage door, closing it with a soft  _clang._  

Dean cannot believe this is his life. 

The Thing is impatient, pressing on his temples, and he knows he can’t wait any longer. 

He looks down at the book spread open in his palms, using the lettering Sam pointed out to guide his speech. The language is foreign and stilted on his tongue, but he goes painstaking slowly, following the pronunciation exactly. By the final round, he has a jilting kind of rhythm. As he breathes the last word, he thinks he can feel an electrical heaviness in the air, like the promise of lightning in a storm. He reaches into his pocket, extracting the silver lighter. Dragging his thumb over the engraving as he draws a deep breath, he flicks open the little flame and tosses it the short distance. 

It lands in the mixing bowl, and soon he hears a hissing, followed by a small popping, and tiny jets of smoke rise. The fire builds rapidly, flaring up and charring the herbs, and he can’t help the involuntary jerk of his dick at the sight. But the flames fizzle out after only a few seconds.

Grief hits him like a ton of bricks.  _It didn’t_  – he doesn’t get a chance to finish the thought.

—- 

There is a sound like a mortar exploding. The shockwave brings dust from the rafters down onto his head, chains and metal of the shop rattling. Dean only just manages not to get knocked on his ass.

Sam’s voice is frantic through the door.

“Dean! Are you alright?” 

“Yeah – “ he coughs, tries again. “Yeah, I’m fine Sammy, it’s fine. Go check the perimeter and make sure that noise didn’t bring anybody nosing around.” He can feel Sam hesitating on the other side of the door, but he knows the boy will listen now that he’s assured of Dean’s safety. As soon as he feels Sam leave, Dean scrambles forward, stepping into the symbol, grabbing the now closed lighter from the bowl. It’s warm to the touch. Maybe…? 

His hands shake violently but he manages to flick open the lid. 

The whoosh of the flame is accompanied by another shock wave, smaller this time, but Dean stumbles back as the tiny flame sparks viciously, growing past its usual size. The color of it is off. There’s a deep blue glowing in the pit of it. His mouth is dry. He raises the lighter and leans in; he can feel the heat beating at his lips. 

_“Hello, Dean.”_  

All breath leaves his lungs. His legs give out. The concrete is unforgiving beneath his knees. The voice of the fire rips through him. The Thing roars in triumph. 

It worked. 

He wants to give a reply, but his throat is full of cinders. The fire smells of battle, of gunpowder in trenches, of blood, of funeral pyres, of blacksmith shops shaping iron, of weaponry, of death. 

“Who are you?” It’s a spider web of sound, burned away immediately as it passes through the flame. The fire grows as Dean’s breath hits it – the words feeding it like oxygen.

_“My name is Castiel.”_  

The voice is so loud in his ears, but also somehow soft, low and rumbling, thunderbolts and eruptions. 

The Thing is dancing now, wildly spinning, a pagan prance, a mad tarantella, the sound of the fire’s voice its guide. It strains for release, for a joining. 

“ _What_  are you?” Again, it grows. The light of it is preternaturally bright, and Dean sees shadows flicking on the wall behind it. For a split second he imagines he sees a huge set of wings, black feathers spanning the entire length of the wall. 

_“I am an angel of the Lord.”_

“Bullshit –“ Dean catches himself, but his brain is finally processing the situation, his voice returning, his knees protesting his genuflect position.

The fire, the pit even more radiantly blue now, huffs – was it laughing at him? 

“They told me you might prove difficult. Perhaps a demonstration…?” The fire leaps suddenly from the neck of the lighter to form a circle around Dean’s wrist. The pain Dean expects, the pain he’s long used to, does not come. No blisters bubble and rise in the skin beneath the cuff. 

The fire moves again, slithering up his arm, the sleeve of his shirt burns and flakes away to reveal pink, unblemished skin. It spreads rapidly, up around his neck, down his chest, over to the other arm. He stretches out his arms to stare (in horror? joy? ecstasy?) as his entire torso is engulfed in flames. He’s naked now but for his fire suit. 

It moves up his neck, obscuring his vision, until all he can see are shapes dancing in the flames. Formless, magnificent things that begin to take on familiar faces. It purrs and brushes his cheeks, tightens around his neck like a constrictor taking stock of its perch, crawls across his skin like spiders and slips down his throat. It reaches deep into his chest and clasps the Thing tightly to it, melding the two forces together.  The Thing cries, as Dean cries too; he feels tears escape from his eyes only to singe a path down his cheeks as the fire evaporates them and leaves only trails of salt. 

He has eaten the fire, swallowed it down, and is suddenly full in a way he’s never known before. Every inch of him is filled with heat and smoke and ash and he can taste chaos and exhale annihilation; the fire is scorching a path through every cell, purifying him.

He’s still crying, sucking in smoke and air with great gulping gasps, when the fire recedes. It stands once more at attention on the tip of the lighter held tightly in Dean’s fist. He rocks back to rest his bare body on his heels. His skin is unmarred, save for a handprint of red, raised flesh on his arm. Dean can feel it burning there, down through the skin, onto his soul. A brand. The fire has claimed him as its own. 

He is terrifyingly happy. The fire, his companion, his curse, his lover, his friend. It can communicate now; it can touch him, cover him. 

Dean is complete. 

The angel’s voice is tender when it speaks, the sound cutting through the sobs still racking his body. 

_“Do not be afraid, Dean.”_

Dean shakes his head. He is not afraid. He will never be afraid again. The iron of command is back in Castiel’s voice when it speaks again. 

_“Go. Find your brother. We have work for you.”_

_  
_


End file.
